


Wait for Tomorrow

by Builder



Series: Powers/No Powers Choose-Your-Own-Adventure [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, CA:CW compliant, Helpful Sam Wilson, If you want - Freeform, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Sickfic, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Vomiting, also canon compliant, kind of, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-18 04:09:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11283471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: There's a loud clicking sound, not from the gun, but from the bedroom door as the knob turns.  Bucky starts, his entire body flinches, and the gun jumps a full inch down into his hair and back up to his temple."Bucky?"  Steve's voice calls quietly as the door opens.





	Wait for Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Stucky is my fave, so here's this. Fill in your own universe. I particularly like the no-powers 'verse in Ohcaptainmycaptain's GI Joes and 2am Diners, so this is kind of in the same strain. However, it can also be canon if you want it to be. It's not about powers, so it doesn't matter if anyone has any. I also enjoy writing Bucky as a veteran/amputee, so there's no prosthetic arm in this one.
> 
> Trigger warnings: read the tags. That about sums it up.
> 
> One last note about me: I often plagiarize myself by reusing certain situations or phrasings. If I post more and you read more of my work, you may notice repeat wording. Don't freak; it's just me being lazy.
> 
> Visit me on Tumblr @Builder051 (It's a lovely sickfic blog).

Bucky's hands are shaking so badly he can't fit the key into the doorknob. The jagged bit of shiny silver metal in his hand clinks against the dull brass knob. He tries holds the key more tightly between his fingers and pushes it forward. This time he slides down the side of the knob and jams the key into the soft grey door with enough force to chip the paint.

"Ugh," Bucky grunts with frustration. He takes a breath and squints at the doorknob. His vision is blurred. It's possible that the problem lies with the key being upside down. That would be an embarrassingly simple problem for which Bucky would probably upbraid himself for the next several days, but at least it had a solution. Not just...general fucked-up-ness that prevented him from being able to accomplish the most simple of tasks.

Bucky turns the key over in his hand14 times, trying not to count, but unable to stop himself. He moves in toward the lock again, the vibration of his hand doing nothing to stabilize his vision. The key thrums a tattoo against the knob, like a tiny bird's heartbeat reproduced by a metronome. A moment of scraping, and still no luck. Bucky turns the key over another 5 times. Then 7 more. Then 3. Then 15.

Bucky breathes, trying to focus on inflating and deflating his lungs and shut out everything else. He takes a modicum of comfort in the fact that his panicking brain can't do the math this quickly under pressure, and he won't know if the key will end up 180 degrees from where it started by the time he gets it to the knob again.

Bucky leans forward, bracing his left shoulder and the stump of his left arm against the door as he pushes the key toward the lock. The door feels like it's trembling in addition to his fingers, and Bucky realizes that his whole body is shaking, leaking tremors into the foundation of the townhouse.

After what feels like an eternity, the key begins to slide joltily into the lock. Bucky's so relieved he nearly drops it. He opens his fist slightly and lets the wintery breeze flow between his clammy fingers before tightening his grip and working the key the rest of the way in.

Bucky turns the slim piece of metal, then the knob, and nearly falls as the door swings open. He's still braced against the flat of the door as it rotates inside the entryway. Bucky takes two stumbling strides forward as the door bounces off the wall and the key falls out of the knob and onto the floor with a gentle metallic clunk. Bucky catches himself by wrapping his hand around one of the pegs on the coat rack hanging on the wall. The thing protests against his weight, but holds.

Bucky releases the coat rack and sags into the wall, leaning his shoulder and upper back against it. He slides down to a seated position, knees drawn up. The almost-fall has released a torrent of vertigo that was hovering just below the surface. Bucky considers standing again, but he feels like he might vomit if he changes altitude again. He settles for stretching out one leg to kick the door shut.

Bucky rests his forehead on his still-drawn-up knee, his shoulder length dark hair falling on either side of his face. Every part of his body is trembling. The dull shadow of the stretched-out leg dances over the tile floor, and it looks even more distorted through the vibrating tears in his eyes.

Bucky's home, he's safe. Nothing happened while he was out. No violence, no flashbacks. No reason to have a panic attack.

After five minutes of slouching against the wall, Bucky finds enough presence of mind to get up and lock the door. He lumbers dizzily into the kitchen and turns on the faucet before thinking through exactly what he wants to do. Bucky watches the white-looking spray splash down the drain to hide under the black flaps of the garbage disposal. He wonders what it would be like to be down there in the cramped, damp space with light and water pouring from the crumpled umbrella opening in the ceiling. Bucky wonders if it would feel better down there.

The small area of his brain that's still rooted in logic acknowledges that setting up camp in the plumbing is a ridiculous idea. The rest of him loudly screeches that if just existing hurts this much, it's reasonable to think that grinding up his body and shoving it somewhere untouchable could bring the relief he's been chasing for what seems like forever.

Bucky finds a plastic cup beside the sink and fills it, letting the water overflow the boundaries of the container. He lifts the cup and lets the contents spill over his shaky grip as he turns off the water with his wrist. Bucky takes a sip. His throat feels odd and constricting when he swallows. The water's lukewarm and not refreshing, but it's the best he'll get. He still can't get over the feeling of coldness crashing through his body...

The slippery sides of the wet cup slide through Bucky's fingers. The plastic echoes against the metal sink and rings in his ears. Bucky's vision swims, and he has to scrape his wet hand across his forehead to convince himself that at least his body is still even if it feels like the rest of the world is moving.

Bucky shoves away from the sink and trips down the hall into the bedroom. He should call Steve. He should not be alone when he's confused and panicky and starting to feel decidedly sick. He has his phone out of his back pocket and is halfway to selecting Steve's contact when he changes his mind. Bucky drops his phone on top of the dresser.

There's not supposed to be shame in asking for help, but there is anyway. Grown men don't need their partners to come home and baby them through panic attacks that don't even fully materialize. They're supposed to hold their own, have a beer and laugh it off, make fun of the fucks that actually believe what they're told in therapy. Steve's probably already leaving work anyway.

Bucky opens a drawer and digs for a pair of sweatpants. He might as well change and try to pass out. That seems like an acceptable thing to do. Jeans are uncomfortable to sleep in regardless of the state of a person's neurotransmitters.

He's looking for a specifically extra-soft pair of Steve's joggers he commandeered into his own drawer a few months ago, but Bucky's hand finds something else first. Something cold and hard and inviting and shaped perfectly for his grip. He stands there, partially hunched for what feels like an eternity, unable to let go, and similarly unable to bend his elbow and pull it out of the messy pile of clothes.

Finally, slowly, he inches his hand out of the folds of jersey. The gun is stuck to his hand with perspiration and confidence Bucky isn't aware of having. He stares at the black matte plastic and metal wrapped in his fingers. He doesn't really remember tucking it away in his drawer, and he wonders if there's a particular reason he's found it now.

The sound of an idling bike floats in from outside. Bucky should put the gun back, bound out to the kitchen, and wait for Steve to come in and embrace him. He should. But instead he raises his trembling hand up to his head. And he stands there. And waits.

Bucky feels the muzzle of the gun, cold and almost wet against his clammy temple, touching, then pulling away, then touching again as his hand shakes. He swallows hard against the foul taste in his throat and feels for the trigger with his numb fingers.

There's a loud clicking sound, not from the gun, but from the bedroom door as the knob turns. Bucky starts, his entire body flinches, and the gun jumps a full inch down into his hair and back up to his temple.

"Bucky?" Steve's voice calls quietly as the door opens.

Bucky feels his face twitching. He opens his mouth slightly, stringy saliva sitting heavily in his throat. The light is dim as evening falls outside the curtained window, but Bucky watches through teary eyes as Steve sees, then comprehends what is happening.

"Buck..." Steve says in a whispery gasp. He half-reaches one hand out toward Bucky and takes a small step forward. The lower corner of the bed intersects the line between them, and Steve doesn't make to round it yet.

"Hey," Steve says. He brings both hands forward, palms down, to make a calming gesture at the air between them. "Hey..." Steve's voice is almost measured with just the slightest edge of emotion. But his eyes are huge and fearful.

Bucky blinks, swallows. He finds purchase on his skin with the gun's icy muzzle. He adjusts his finger, lifting it off the trigger and gently placing it down again, involuntarily bouncing it on the metal curve.

"Can, uh...?" Steve says, clearly struggling for neutral words. Don't say I, don't say you, don't say anything triggering. Which could be, literally, anything.

Steve starts over again. "Buck. Not today. Not today, ok?"

Bucky swallows again. He feels mucous shifting across the back of his tongue. He opens his mouth again, but there are no words. The world is ending, and there's nothing to say. He manages a slight shake of his head. The room tilts around him, and the gun finds the top of his ear.

"Yeah," Steve whispers. "It...it's bad today. And that's just, it just happens. But that doesn't mean it's gonna be bad tomorrow. It might not be any better, but you...there should at least be a chance to find out."

Bucky inhales wetly as clammy sweat breaks out on his forehead. Everything is in motion around him and inside him. Steve is the only thing not spinning, and Bucky focuses on his hands...his chest...his lips...

"Buck..."

Bucky drops the gun. It clatters loudly to the hardwood floor, and the sound melds with Steve's footsteps as he sprints the last few feet round the bed to envelop Bucky in his warm embrace. Bucky slackens completely, his forehead dropping to Steve's shoulder and his arm hanging limply as Steve's more muscular ones wrap him. The radiating heat alone is comforting; Bucky's entire body feels unpleasantly damp and cold. His legs and lower jaw tremble, cold and emotion making his teeth chatter.

"Buck," Steve whispers, his voice vibrating into Bucky as Steve's mouth presses against the side of his head, "It's ok. You're ok."

Bucky takes a gasping breath against the clot of emotion sitting at the base of his throat. His chest heaves against Steve's with a body-wracking yet tearless sob. Bucky's head throbs and nausea washes over him.

"I love you so much," Steve soothes, bringing one hand up under Bucky's hair to press comfortingly against the back of his neck. It feels good, warm, but makes Bucky acutely aware of just how uncomfortable the rest of his body is. His arms and legs prickle with goosebumps while his hands and feet feel soaked with clammy sweat. Bucky's face feels numb, and he suddenly has an excess of saliva in addition to stringy snot running between his mouth and throat.

Bucky swallows thickly, his damp lips slightly parted against Steve's waffle knit henly. "I-" Bucky murmurs, tasting bile. "I don't feel good."

"Hm?" Steve trails his fingers down Bucky's neck while gently shifting his shoulder so Bucky's mouth isn't as obscured.

Bucky knows he won't be able to get the words out again. "I-" he starts before he has to swallow again. Nothing goes down; it just brings on a swirling maelstrom of vertigo. Bucky pushes forward into Steve's chest and gags. He can't quite coordinate dragging his hand up between their bodies to cover his mouth, so he ends up half-punching Steve in the hip as the second gag brings up warm fluid.

"Ok, come on," Steve says, remarkably calmly, as he pulls Bucky across the bedroom and into the ensuite. Bucky fights not to open his mouth, but both Steve's shirt and his own already feel wet.

"Alright, there we go," Steve mutters as he lifts the toilet lid and helps Bucky sink to his trembling knees. Bucky's barely down when he's retching hard. He isn't sure where to reach for physical support, so he ends up bracing the stump of his left arm on the toilet seat while floundering for Steve's touch with his right. Bucky's hair falls forward into his eyes, sticking to his forehead and temples with sweat.

Steve grasps Bucky's hand and comes down on his knees beside him. "Hey, it's alright," Steve intones as he traces the fingers of one hand up Bucky's back to tuck his hair back behind his ears. Bucky vomits again. His eyes water at the taste, and vertigo thrums so strongly that he's afraid he'll fall forward and start drowning in the contaminated toilet water. Bucky grips Steve's hand tightly.

The next heave is less productive, and the one after that completely dry. Bucky hangs there over the toilet bowl, his breath coming in uneven, shaky gasps. Mucous quivers audibly in his throat. He tries to swallow, but instead chokes and gags again. Steve pats him on the back, murmuring quiet, soothing things Bucky can't quite hear over the sound of blood pounding in his ears. He hacks, and ropy yellowish saliva drips onto the toilet seat.

As soon as he's fairly convinced he won't puke again, Bucky lets himself slide into Steve as though magnetically attracted. The side of his head finds Steve's chest, and Steve holds him close. "It's ok," Steve whispers, running his fingers softly through Bucky's sweaty hair.

Steve keeps saying it, but it can't possibly be true. Bucky doesn't know if he'll be able to stand upright without succumbing to vertigo anytime in the next millennium. He can smell his vomit on himself, on Steve, and in the toilet. The clump of real or imaginary whatever in his throat feels like shards of broken glass and makes it difficult to breathe. The only thing that seems right is an apology.

"I'm s-sorry-," Bucky chokes out. He coughs, feeling saliva and residual snot and bile spray from his uncovered mouth.

"Buck, it's fine," Steve says, smoothing a hand down his back as Bucky struggles to inhale. The hack has become an enormous spasmming sob.

"'S not-fucking-fine," Bucky manages, turning his face into Steve's shirt again. His shoulders wrack with the force of the next sob, then carry on in smaller aftershock tremors. "I'm so-so sorr-." The sob turns into a dry heave, and some bizarre neural path lights up pain stretching from Bucky's eyeballs to his hairline. Bucky brings his right hand up from Steve's lap and embeds his fingers into his hair in an attempt to relieve or maybe add to the pain. He hasn't decided which.

"Sshh, Buck," Steve says, a tiny hint of urgency in his soft voice, "Breathe." He wraps his hand around Bucky's, reducing the pressure on his hair, but not disentangling the hand from it.

Bucky gets in one tremulous gasp before the next sob breaks through. "Good," Steve whispers. "Keep breathing."

Bucky tries. After a couple more sobs, tears finally begin to fall. Hot and salty, they leak down his face and into his mouth where they add to the disgusting taste.

Steve just holds him until the spasms peter off into continuous tremors. The tears stop flowing, leaving Bucky's eyes, nose, and throat feeling like they're full of sand and his head with the hot, painful throbbing reminiscent of catching a blunt object to the side of the skull. Bucky can feel Steve breathing, and he half-consciously pushes his body to inhale and exhale in the same deep, slow rhythm.

Several eternities seem to pass, and Steve finally whispers, "How're you feeling?"

Bucky screws up his eyes and swallows against combined gunk and dryness. He takes a deep inhale into Steve's chest. "Nuh," is the best he can manage.

"Still not so good?" Steve asks, bringing the hand that isn't curled around Bucky's to cup the other man's jaw. He carefully coaxes Bucky's face out of his shirt. "Might have a bit of a fever..."

Bucky isn't surprised. Now that his nerves aren't pushing him to tear his way out of his own skin, he's aware of how ill he feels. Bucky isn't sure if it's just a hellish come-down or if he's actually sick, but it hardly matters. He's sweaty and filthy and miserable and he has no idea how to deal with it.

Luckily, Steve seems to know. "I'm gonna get you cleaned up and in bed, ok?" he says softly.

Bucky barely nods, and it sends his sense of equilibrium into nauseous spirals.

Steve shifts his body so he's squatting, balanced on his feet while still supporting Bucky. "First I'm gonna lean you back against the wall." He brings both hands around Bucky's chest and shifts him a few feet back away from the toilet so he's resting against the wall. The motion is smooth, but saliva pools under his tongue as his stomach cramps. Bucky's hand finally drifts out of his hair and he wraps his arm around his abdomen.

The bathroom is dark, and Bucky's hair hangs in front of his eyes, but he can see Steve's outline stepping to the sink. The water runs for a moment, then Steve approaches with a damp washcloth. "I'm gonna help you get cleaned up," he murmurs, squatting in front of Bucky again. Bucky opens his mouth to say...something. Maybe 'ok' or 'thank you,' but he isn't sure. He can't get a sound out other than a weak groan.

"You don't have to say anything," Steve says as he smooths Bucky's hair back and wipes his face with the warm cloth. "You're doing fine." Steve rests the washcloth on his knee and gently teases his hands under the bottom of Bucky's t-shirt. He lifts the fabric and frees first the stump arm, then Bucky's head, and finally his right arm, which he keeps softly held around his stomach. Steve tosses the soiled shirt into the laundry basket, then sponges off Bucky's chest where a sheen of sweat and dampness of vomit linger. Steve sweeps the cloth to the back of Bucky's neck, his back, and down his shoulders and arm. Bucky still feels disgusting, but marginally cleaner.

Steve tosses the washcloth into the laundry as well, then faces Bucky with one hand on each side of his torso. "I'm gonna help you stand up now," Steve says. Bucky does not think this is a good idea, seeing as the vertigo flares each time he moves his head, let alone his body. Steve gives him no time to protest, though, and Steve's left arm braces under Bucky's stump and he loops his right arm around Bucky's waist. Bucky's leaning back slightly with all his weight resting on Steve. Steve walks him forward to the sink. Bucky's hand finds purchase on the counter, and he braces himself while determinately not looking at his reflection in the mirror. The nausea swells up again for a moment, and Bucky swallows hard, training his eyes downward where he watches his bare chest rise and fall with his uneven breathing.

Steve somehow one-handedly turns on the faucet while keeping a strong hold on Bucky. He fills a cup with water and offers it. "Rinse out your mouth?"

Bucky almost can't find the cup with his still-trembling fingers. It's like the incident with the key earlier, but this time he has an excuse. Bucky finally holds it in his loose grip and takes a sip that drips down his chin and splashes onto the counter. "It's ok," Steve encourages. Bucky moves the water around his mouth, then lets it splash into the sink.

He lets his hand drift toward Steve, who takes the cup back. "Do you want to try to drink some?"

Bucky weakly shakes his head.

"Ok. We'll get you some later," Steve says. "Let's get you in bed."

Bucky wants nothing more than to lie down and hopefully lose consciousness for the next several hours. Or years. But with his current irregular sleep patterns, hours is more likely. However, the gun is still there on the bedroom floor, and Bucky isn't sure if upon seeing it he'll be overcome with another desire to shoot himself or a desire to run and hide from it. Bucky subconsciously turns his body in toward Steve as he supports him over the threshold and back into the bedroom. He wonders fleetingly if Steve remembers where the gun is.

Of course Steve remembers, and he has a plan. "Alright," he murmurs as he brings Bucky around to the side of the bed where the gun is not and leans his hips against the mattress. "Let's get your jeans off."

Bucky sets his stump on Steve's shoulder and rests his arm around Steve's neck. Steve undoes Bucky's belt, then button and fly. The movement is slow, so loving, and so sexual even though neither of them are aroused. Steve brings the jeans down to Bucky's feet, and he steps out of them, using Steve for support. Steve slowly straightens, bringing both himself and Bucky upright again. Steve rests his hands around the waistband of Bucky's boxer briefs. Bucky's hair is halfway covering his face, but he trains his quivering gaze on Steve, finding the glint of his blue eyes in the darkness.

It's the first time they've made eye contact since the gun hit the floor. Bucky's face crumples as he fights the urge to cry. His head is throbbing so badly that he feels he could pass out.

"Buck," Steve whispers. "It's gonna be ok. I love you. We'll get through this." He ghosts his fingers up and down Bucky's back. Bucky can't suppress the small shaky sob that bursts out of him and makes his vision go black for a second. He almost loses his balance, and Steve gently pushes his hips back so he's seated on the bed.

"It's ok; just lie down," Steve says, shifting the pillows and blankets so Bucky can recline comfortably. The sheets are cool against Bucky's bare skin, and the shivers that start up bring the tempo of his throbbing headache up to a sickening speed.

"Give me one second," Steve murmurs as he pads around the room. There's a quiet sort of negative click as the gun is removed from its place on the floor. The fact that Bucky's expecting it doesn't make it any less unpleasant. Steve's footsteps plod out of the bedroom and down the hall. Bucky loses track of Steve's movements for a moment as the throbbing in his forehead slows to match his heartbeat.

Then Steve's back in the hallway, pacing. His voice is quietly murmuring, "Can you come? No, we're fine. It's just...Buck's real sick." He's on the phone with someone. Bucky cringes at the thought of someone else seeing him, hearing what he's done...tried to do. "I don't know. He's dehydrated. In a lot of pain. It's just...not been a good day."

So panic attack plus suicide attempt plus sick migraine and uncontrollable emotions equates to not a good day? Another sob and associated nausea rise in Bucky's throat. He's relieved whomever is on the other end of the phone call isn't getting the specifics, but also mortified that his actions have to be euphemized like that.

Bucky's suddenly sweltering and overwhelmed with the urge to throw up. He shoves himself up on the stump of his left arm and retches over the side of the bed. Nothing comes up, but he has to wrap his fingers into the bedskirt to keep the vertigo from shaking him out of bed completely.

Suddenly footsteps are rushing back into the room, to Bucky's side. "Hey, alright," Steve says, grabbing Bucky by both shoulders to prevent him from falling. Bucky gasps and pants, trying to find his breath again. Steve brings one hand up to Bucky's forehead and trails it down his cheek. "Yeah, feels like a fever."

They stay there for a minute until Bucky's stomach settles and he starts shivering again. "Feel like you can lie back down?" Steve asks, rubbing his thumb over the bulging muscles in Bucky's left shoulder.

"Yeah," Bucky croaks, slowly collapsing down to the mattress. He's still nauseous, just in a less urgent way. Steve helps him settle onto his back with the covers drawn up over his bare chest.

"I'm coming," Steve says, letting Bucky know in as few words as possible that it's his intention to get in bed with him. "Just give me one more second." Steve's stripping off his shirt, which Bucky vaguely recalls he puked on what seems like forever ago.

"Sam's coming by," Steve murmurs as he drops his jeans and pulls on sweats instead. "Just to bring some stuff to help you feel better. Gatorade, soup, that kind of thing." Steve yanks a thin white tank over his head.

"Are...are you g-gonna t-tell...?" Bucky whispers through his spasming jaw.

Steve stops midway through rounding the foot of the bed. He's standing approximately where Bucky dropped the gun. "I..." he starts. "I don't want to have to tell anyone," Steve says, raking a hand over his own face. He steps forward and slides his legs into bed, bringing both a cool breeze and warm body heat. Steve's voice quivers as he seems to grapple with what he's feeling. "Buck, you can't..." he says as he lowers his head to the pillow beside Bucky's. "I just love you so much."

"Love you t-too..." Bucky whispers before another sob cuts off his breath.

Steve strokes Bucky's right arm from shoulder to fingertips. "It's gonna be ok," he intones.

They lay there for nearly an hour, Steve coaxing Bucky's breathing back to normal with gentle stroking of his arm and his hair. Then, distantly, there's the sound of a key scraping in a lock and a soft call of, "Wilson in the house."

"There's Sam," Steve whispers, shifting his feet toward the floor. "Do you want to see him?" he asks Bucky.

Bucky doesn't want to see anyone. Or, rather, for anyone to see him. Preferably ever again. "Not re..." The rest of the word gets lost on its way out.

"Ok," Steve murmurs, giving Bucky's hair one last smooth before pushing out of bed. "I'll be right back."

Bucky's body has quieted enough that he can hear most of what's going on in the small townhouse. There's a rustling of plastic grocery bags, then Sam's deep voice asking how Bucky's doing.

"Ok right now," Steve says, "He's running a fever and I know he's got a bad headache. It's been all shakes and sweats and throwing up. Not bringing anything up anymore, though."

"Dehydrated?" Sam asks.

"Yeah," Steve says. "It's all just..." he trails off.

"You said it hasn't been a good day," Sam says.

"Yeah, he was having a panic attack when I got home, and anxiety's still through the roof. It's hard to keep him calm when he keeps getting sick," Steve explains, glossing over the reality of the details. "And I don't know if he's actually got a bug or if it's just his body kind of...freaking out."

"I've been there," Sam says quietly. "Not that bad, but I been there. Happens to the best of us." There's grocery bag rustling again. "Start him with this. Hopefully he's up to taking fluids."

"Refused water earlier, but I haven't been pushing it," Steve says. A cupboard creaks open and then there's the sound of pouring liquid. "Thanks for stopping by. Buck's not really up to visitors right now," Steve explains as his footsteps start to enter the hallway between the kitchen and bedroom. "But you're welcome to stick around if you want. We got Netflix."

"Will the sound bother him?" Sam asks.

"Shouldn't. White noise helps with relaxation sometimes," Steve says, his footsteps moving further down the hall.

A second later, the bedroom door opens and Steve slides inside. "Alright, Buck," he murmurs as he moves to Bucky's side of the bed and sets the plastic cup he's holding down on the bedside table. "You doing ok?"

"Yeah," Bucky whispers. Nothing's changed since Steve left. He still feels sad and dead.

"Think you can try to drink something?"

Bucky doesn't want to. He's still nauseous, and he doesn't want to give his stomach anything to expel. However, he knows the wanging headache will lessen once he takes in something. "Ugh," he groans.

"Yeah, I know," Steve says, slipping one hand under Bucky's left shoulder. "I'll help you sit up."

Bucky clenches his jaw and focuses all his effort on keeping his stomach in place as Steve hauls him upright and fluffs the pillow behind his back. "There. You ok?" Steve checks in.

"Give it a sec..." Bucky mumbles, bringing his fist to his mouth as the vertigo slowly settles and he becomes accustomed to the new, upright altitude. He slowly opens his hand and runs it down the stubble on his chin before letting it fall into his lap.

"Alright?" Steve asks, picking up the cup again.

"Yeah," Bucky breathes. Steve holds out the cup, and Bucky shakily takes it. It's barely a third of the way full, and Bucky's grateful. He can't hold it steady at all.

"It's Gatorade," Steve informs him. "Need to get your electrolytes back in balance. Then your head might not hurt as much. Might feel less sick to your stomach too."

Bucky really doesn't want to, but he forces himself to take a shaky sip. It tastes bad, overly sour and overly sweet on his tongue that still holds the slight taste of bile. He swallows and takes another sip, trying to focus on the pleasant feeling of wetness in his dry mouth rather than the flavor. The second swallow is difficult, and cold discomfort rushes up Bucky's face and settles behind his eyes. Whether it's psychosomatic or real, it brings not barfing back up to the main priority and pushes taking fluids to the back burner.

Steve can read Bucky's face like no one else, even in the dark and with his hair hanging forward. He takes the cup back and sets it down, then grasps Bucky's hand in both of his. "Relax," Steve coaxes. "Breathe. You're ok."

Bucky inhales through his nose and swallows hard. It feels like liquid is sitting in his throat, not going down and threatening to come back up. He swallows hard again before exhaling and suppressing a quiet belch he hopes doesn't open a floodgate.

"You need a trash can?" Steve asks, rubbing Bucky's hand. Bucky shrugs. Steve pats his hand, then disappears into the bathroom for a moment. He returns with the white plastic bathroom trash can in hand. Steve perches on the edge of the mattress and edges the bin into Bucky's lap.

Bucky stares down at the crumpled tissues and lone toilet paper tube in it, willing himself not to be sick. He curls his hand around the plastic rim tightly enough to imprint his fingers with the narrow edge's mark. He swallows hard again, then a wave of iciness washes over him as the nausea dissipates into more distant queasiness. Bucky lets out his breath and releases his grip on the bin, pushing it back toward Steve.

"Ok?" Steve checks in before sliding the trash can onto the floor. Bucky rubs between his eyes in an attempt to loosen some of the tight discomfort.

"You're doing good," Steve assures him. "You're doing fine."

"Still just-," Bucky pauses to take a shaky breath, "don't feel good."

"I know," Steve murmurs, patting Bucky's leg. He checks his watch. "It's just after 8:00. Not too early to go to sleep if you're tired."

Bucky nods. "F'cking exhausted," he mumbles. He still can't even hold his hand out without trembling. Steve helps flatten the pillow and supports Bucky down onto his back.

"You want me to come in?" Steve asks with a small smile, already knowing the answer.

"Yeah," Bucky whispers.

"I'll just let Sam know," Steve says, running his fingers through Bucky's hair before slipping out of the room.

Over the dull buzzing of the TV, Bucky hears Steve tell Sam they're going to bed and Sam reply that he'll stay a bit longer and lock up when he leaves. Steve relays the message to Bucky when he's back in the bedroom. "Sam's going to stay for a little bit," Steve says, "Just in case."

It ends up being a good thing that Sam stays.

Bucky falls into a light, unsettled sleep. He's not comfortable, but at least he feels safe. That is, until the dreams begin.

Nightmares aren't unusual for him, but they're the last thing he needs right now. The regular recurring vision of the cold metal sensors being pressed to his temples becomes confused with much more recent memories. The muzzle of the gun presses to his head...

Bucky jerks awake, elbows Steve in the face, and scrambles for the edge of the bed as intense pain from the imaginary gunshot blossoms over his skull and liquid rushes up his throat. Bucky heaves and brings up the Gatorade he drank earlier. Most ends up in the trash can, but he can't see, and catches the side of the mattress and his right hand in the mess.

"Buck, Buck, you're ok," Steve says. The mattress dips as he sits up in bed behind Bucky and wraps an arm around his chest.

There are hurried footsteps in the hallway, and the bedroom door is thrust open, bringing in blinding light from the hall. "What's-," Sam starts, looking halfway between panicked and sleepy, "You ok?"

"Yeah," Steve says as Bucky retches again, completely missing the bin. "We're just...sick."

"What can I do?" Sam asks.

"Help get him to the bathroom," Steve says, pushing Bucky's legs to hang over the edge of the bed.

"Hey, man," Sam intones quietly as he slides his arm under Bucky's stump and pulls him to his feet. "It's Sam, ok?" Bucky dry heaves. Sam quickly grabs the trash and holds it under Bucky's chin with his free hand. "I know you're not feeling so hot. I'm gonna help you get to the bathroom, ok?"

Sam keeps up a stream of murmured encouragement as they edge across the room. Once in the ensuite, Sam lets Bucky slump down onto the closed toilet and curl over the trash can. Bucky retches once more, only bringing up acidic-tasting snot.

Bucky can't control his breathing. His eyes fill with tears, and he's not sure what force of nature is making him gasp into the bin in his lap. His stomach is empty, and the contracting of his abdominal muscles is ending in deep hacks for air.

"You gotta breathe, dude," Sam reminds Bucky.

Then Steve is there with him. "Buck, babe, come on," Steve says. He kneels in front of Bucky and puts a hand on each of his shoulders. "Ten," Steve starts counting down. "Nine."

Bucky takes a shallow, quick breath. "Good. You can do this. Eight," Steve keeps counting.

By the time they get to three, Bucky can completely fill his lungs. They get to one, and tears are streaming from his eyes. The trash can is coaxed out of his lap, and Bucky collapses onto Steve's shoulder.

"Alright, you're ok," Steve soothes for what feels like the millionth time tonight. Bucky gives a great gasping sob. "Just breathe," he says. Then, to Sam, "Can you get him some water?"

The sink runs for a second, then Steve's helping him sit up as Sam offers a cup of water. "Just rinse your mouth," Steve says. Bucky takes the smallest of sips, swishes, and spits into the trash can that Sam nudges toward him. Saliva hangs from his lip and dangles over the bin. Bucky turns his head to wipe his lower lip on his left shoulder, then cleans his mouth again. It feels good, and the clear water tastes so much better than the combined Gatorade and stomach acid. Bucky takes a third small sip and swallows.

"Good," Steve says, rubbing Bucky's back. Then his voice turns more serious. "Was it a dream, Buck?" Steve asks.

Bucky presses his lips together and takes a slight glance toward Sam.

"It's ok, we don't need to talk about it," Steve assures. "I just need to know what's hurting you."

A fresh stream of tears slide down Bucky's face. "Was it a dream?" Steve asks again.

Bucky barely nods. He buries his face in his hand, which is slightly sticky with puke.

"Ok," Steve says. "How about your body? Still your head?"

Bucky nods again. He drags his hand down his cheek to his jaw. "Nauseous as fuck," he breathes. "And just...hurts." His entire body still aches and prickles.

Steve feels his forehead. "I'm gonna take your temperature," he decides.

"Where's the thermometer, I can get it," Sam offers from the corner he's retreated into with the vomity wastebasket.

"In the cabinet behind the mirror," Steve instructs.

A moment later, the thing is under Bucky's tongue. He feels unbearably stupid sitting there on the toilet, half naked, sweaty, and still leaking tears. Bucky can't bring himself to make eye contact. Steve is his partner, he takes care of Bucky through this kind of thing, but he shouldn't have to. And Sam, well, he shouldn't even be here.

"Ok, I'll take that..." Steve sides the thermometer out of Bucky's mouth and tilts it to read the mercury. "101," he reports. "That's a solid fever."

Bucky face-palms again and shoves his hair back. It's gotten sweaty enough to start feeling permanently damp with grease.

"I think you need more fluids, maybe some meds and some food," Steve suggests. "Tell me what you need, Buck."

Bucky sighs. He croaks out the first thing that comes to mind. "Not gonna sleep."

"Yeah, you don't have to," Steve says. "Think we probably need to change the sheets anyway."

"I can get on that," Sam offers, "Where do you keep clean ones?"

Steve directs him to the linen closet, then turns all attention back to Bucky. The flurry of activity and presence of a guest has actually helped settle the situation. The pressure to pull himself together considerably sped up the process.

"Do you want to get cleaned up?" Steve asks

Bucky nods. He feels filthy. The smell of bile is lingering, and even his boxer briefs are sticking to him with sweat.

"Ok. Think you can stand in the shower?"

Bucky nods again. "Great," Steve says. He pats Bucky on the knee and gets to his feet to turn on the hot water.

Half an hour later, Bucky's clean. His damp hair is loosely ponytailed at the base of his skull, and he's dressed in a t-shirt and sweats. Disillusioned with the bedroom and afraid of how the cold leather of the living room couch will feel on his achy body, Bucky settles in one of the chairs at the kitchen table. Sam grabs the afghan from under the coffee table and drapes it around Bucky's shoulders.

Steve joins them after starting a load of laundry. Bucky's slouched forward, resting his chin in his hand and his stump on the table. "What do you want to drink?" Steve asks, brushing a hand over Bucky's shoulder.

Bucky still doesn't want to drink anything, especially after how the Gatorade set with him. And he's cold. Maybe something warm to sip... "Tea?" he suggests, voice rough.

"Peppermint might help you feel better," Steve agrees. He fills the kettle with water and puts it on the stove. "Sam?" Steve prompts.

"I can do peppermint tea," Sam says gamely.

"You sure?" Steve asks. He checks his watch. "It's only 11:30. We got coffee. Beer."

"No, tea is good," Sam insists.

"Alright then." Steve prepares 3 mugs on the counter, distributing tea bags and lining them up next to the stove.

"You want to try to take a painkiller, Buck?" Steve asks.

Bucky isn't sure. He does want to try to reduce the throbbing in his head and aching in his body, but he knows Steve will insist he eat something. He slumps further down onto the table, and the sick headache finally wins out. "Yeah, I'll take something," he mumbles.

"How about some toast with it?" Steve presses gently.

"Fuck the toast," Bucky grumbles. Sam smiles.

From the kitchen, Steve says, "Hm?"

"Fine," Bucky says.

The fridge opens and there's a springing sound as bread is loaded into the toaster four slices at a time. The kettle boils, and Steve catches it before the sound becomes too shrill for Bucky's sensitive head. Steve delivers the steaming mugs, then goes back to grab the toast. The kitchen is warm and smells comfortingly yeasty.

It seems like barely a minute passes when Steve sets down a plate with two slices of naked toast and an open bottle of extra strength Tylenol. "Thanks," Bucky says, still less than excited about eating.

Steve brings a large plate of toasts and containers of butter and Nutella to the table for himself and Sam. Bucky wraps his hand around his mug, absorbing as much warmth as he can. Steve sits in the chair beside him and pats his shoulder. "You good?" he asks.

"Uh," Bucky says. The answer is still decidedly no, but everything here in front of him, right at this moment, is adding up to a different, better atmosphere. "I-I think so." He'll wait to find out tomorrow.


End file.
